Privilege
by snarkmcsnark
Summary: Dear Melancholy, I'm leaving my son with the sitter and driving two hours north to a log cabin in the woods. Look, I can handle the tough cases, but sometimes nothing seems to take the blues away. I need to know I'll be okay so I drive north to visit an old friend who understands me better than my own therapist. He doesn't know how to fix me but he knows how to take the pain away.


_**AN** : Hello. I hope this one-shot will be part one of six of my **Dear Melancholy,** series inspired by The Weeknd's latest EP. Maybe, possibly different ships but I thought I'd thirst trap with an EO fic because I'm shameless like that. Enjoy, my friends. Please review and tell me what's on your mind. :)_

* * *

 **Privilege**

* * *

 _We said our last goodbyes  
_ _So, let's just try to end it with a smile_

* * *

It's not her proudest moment. Abandoning her son with the sitter and driving two hours north to a log cabin in the woods. Proud moments are now lived vicariously through her Noah, who comes home offering arts, crafts, and the kind of priceless insight only hatched by curious five-year-olds. "Mama, when I grow up, I want to sell candy in the subway."  
She's careful not to shoot down his dreams, wishing she could stop time to Google the appropriate parenting approach. Instead, she studies the thoughtful expression on his face and she smiles. "Why do you want to do that?"  
Noah lowers his head and stares at her like the answer shouldn't have to be explained by a kid with only ten percent of her life experience. "Grown-ups are always in such a hurry, they forget to eat and that's why they're so grumpy."  
"Honey, I think you have a future in diplomacy."  
He shakes his head in mock tantrum and laughs. "No! Candy! Candy! Candy!"  
There's satisfaction in her work as a female lieutenant in the Special Victims Unit of the NYPD. But justice served doesn't conjure up feelings of pride — not anymore. It feels like a never-ending cycle of disillusionment and replenishment. She does the job because someone has to, and that someone has to care about the survivors. She cares, but she's also very tired. A rosy glimpse of humanity is just that — a glimpse.

Olivia Benson can handle tough cases. Many professionals with multiple doctorates between them have recommended retirement. Olivia is firm in her decision to stay. She is firm when she declines the calls of a publisher to help her write her story. "You wouldn't need to work another day in your life." It's as if idleness is the award for exploiting her own trauma. Silently, she argues she works the long hours to avoid the unnerving shadows of such idleness; instead, she tells the publisher she's not interested in becoming a public figure.  
Sometimes the scraps left behind from tough cases cannot be patched over by a new one. In those moments, she forgets pride entirely and drives north to visit an old friend who understands her better than her own therapist.

Elliot Stabler doesn't understand the science of how to fix her. Hell, she's not certain he has much faith in psychotherapy, believing instead on the healing powers of time, distance, and nature. She doesn't think the same methods will work for her.  
Number one: she's a single mom with a toddler. Elliot may have five children, but four have flown the nest and the last one he sees every weekend, Christian holiday, and the entire month of July.  
Number two: she doesn't do the outdoors.

The scene outside the window is placid. The evergreens are still and the sky a cloudless blue. It feels like the sun should have set by now, and it would have if it hadn't been for the end of daylight savings a week ago. The crackling fire from the other room has dwindled to ash. She scorns the tranquility of nature as it makes audible the rumble of her empty stomach.  
"I heard that." Elliot's lips are pressed on her upper back, like a hot stone. "Liv, five more minutes and I'll whip something up."  
"No," she says. "I've got to go anyway."  
He doesn't protest because he already knows the situation. She's only paid for the sitter to watch Noah until half past ten. She doesn't come over often, but when she does, she never stays the night and never lets herself succumb to the exhaustion. There's never a "Wake up, sleepyhead, I made breakfast." It's non-negotiable, and he knows that.  
She sits up, the plaid blanket tucked under her arms as if he hasn't already memorized the parts of her body she tries to conceal. The room is small, just enough to fit a queen bed, two side tables, and a dresser on the opposite wall. The shades are drawn to let the forest filtered light in, but the dark woods on the walls and floor, and wool throws and a patchwork blanket all make it a very cozy space. It's a space designed for snuggling. She resists but not without discipline.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she secures the pearlized buttons of her blouse. Both the bed and floor creaks as she stands, searching for those black skin-tight jeans she dreads putting on. They're a size smaller than she is now, but she likes how they tuck and lift her in all the right places.  
Elliot, still naked and under the covers, reaches down on his side to retrieve her jeans. He hands them to her, the corners of his mouth curled into a smirk. Quietly, they share a very recent memory of their relentless giggles as he attempted to peel the garment off her legs.  
"This is mortifying," she said, hands covering her reddened face, as he shimmied her jeans past her womanly hips and thighs. "Not at all sexy."  
"I can make it sexy."  
She perched herself on her forearms and watched — until she couldn't bear to keep her eyes open anymore — as he kissed and marked the length of her legs. Hips to ankles, ankles to hips. Culminating between her thighs, commanding her with his skillful mouth and making her feel like the sexiest woman alive.

"Are you sure you can't stay for a quick dinner?" He asks as he gets dressed in a pair of boxers and an undone house robe. "I'm very efficient in the kitchen."  
"Unlike other things," she teases with a sly grin.  
"Excuse me for being an old man." He tilts his chin upward as if mocking indignation. The salt and pepper growth on his face is thick enough to almost mask the hint of a smile. Almost. 'Sides, you're one to talk given how much you benefit from extended foreplay."  
Her cheeks bloom with warmth. She gets down on her knees to search for her missing sock and also so he can't have visual proof of the side effect of his reminder. "I wasn't complaining."  
"Good. Wouldn't want a negative Yelp review deterring other customers."  
She bursts out laughing and falls on all-fours. Her eyes well with happy tears when she spots the missing sock under the bed.

* * *

 _I got two red pills to take the blues away_

* * *

The splash of cold water on her face is a jolt back to reality. Just as she has to emotionally prepare herself for these trips to see Elliot, she has to reconfigure her brain back to independent-working-mom mode. Her cheeks are still ruddy from the physical exertions of sex, and her lips are naturally swollen from her ex-partner's assertive style of kissing. Nothing French about his kiss, unless you're talking early 19th century revolutions.  
She likes that she isn't delicate in his eyes by virtue of her background — both professional and personal. Consent still takes precedence in everything they do. But she trusts him when the lines of power blur and he takes the reins of control. Only Elliot, no one else.  
His medicine cabinet is stocked with the standard set of toiletries: toothpaste, floss, shaving foam, and disposable razors. On the bottom shelf, a neatly arranged row of transparent orange vials with white caps. It looks like a smaller version of her own bathroom pharmacy, but the labels on the bottles tell a different story. None of them are to help with depression, anxiety, insomnia, or age-related estrogen imbalance.  
She closes the mirrored cabinet and watches her reflection, chest rising to steel herself for the goodbye.

When Olivia steps out of the bathroom, Elliot is standing by the stove with a spatula in hand. Sizzling in a cast-iron pan is a grilled cheese sandwich with farmers' market Pumpernickel and Gruyère — none of that fake American cheese. It's gourmet enough to fool anyone into thinking they're Gordon Ramsay — Elliot's favourite celebrity chef. Go figure.  
"I'm heading out," she calls from the adjacent living room. "Thanks for having me over."  
"Wait." He rounds the corner, revealing himself. His eyes are wide in warning. "One minute."  
"El."  
He disappears round the thick wood column and half wall separating the two rooms. She hears the sizzle on a hot pan, the slice of a knife, and the rustle of paper. He comes around with a paper bag like he's just packed a school lunch for one of his kids. She shakes her head, but smiles and accepts the offering.  
"Thank you."  
He pulls her in for a hug and kisses the top of her head. There's nothing romantic about the gesture, and she's no fool to wish otherwise. "Text me when you're home."  
"Only if the sandwich is good."  
"Then I expect a naked selfie from bed."  
She kisses him on the lips — a rare goodbye for the two of them. "In your wildest dreams."

Two years ago, a considerable amount of time since he retired as a detective, Elliot worked for a private security company. He had been on the job for a little over six months when he got the kind of injury that required numerous surgeries and a reinforced faith in God. Physical therapy took twice as long as his actual time on the job. And while he recovered, the pain never fully went away.  
A doctor, who was having an affair with the young and go-getting pharmaceutical rep, prescribed Elliot with OxyContin.  
He took ten milligrams every six hours, then every four hours. Then they told him he could sneak an extra-strength Tylenol in between if he felt he needed it, but it never helped. A placebo pill would've been more effective. So he started taking the Oxy as needed.  
He had almost gone down a dark hole had it not been for Olivia. Their meetings were few and far between, but she had been the only one to notice the signs. His ex-partner on the job understood him better than his ex-wife, who saw him drop off their kid on Sunday afternoons. Kathy didn't have a clue.  
Those next few weeks, Olivia was the outstretched arm that snatched him away from being another statistic in the opioid epidemic. She was on the floor with him when they flushed the contents of those orange bottles — pills that only appeared to be acquired legally by virtue of their strategic placement in outdated containers. He kept the empty bottles, not as a trophy but as a penance.  
No one knows they're even still in contact, so it's understood that no one would ever find out about his flash of addiction. He's been grateful for her help and discretion, so he continues to let her take the reins of control in their relationship.  
She isn't looking for a serious relationship or a father figure for her son. She makes it clear when he broaches the subject with the subtlety of a New York city police officer. The responsibilities of motherhood and the job are enough to fill her plate. A man and commitment — those are the makings of a minefield of disillusionment. Her words; not his. So she uses him as needed. He is her Oxy.


End file.
